By DL Shirey
Afterwards, they called themselves the Dead Gang. Survivors, covered in dust, still on the clock, piling intact bodies onto pallets. Parts tossed in two bins labeled “LIMBS” and “MISC.”
Once the elevator started again, the job went quicker. It didn’t get easier. At end of shift coveralls and work gloves were burned, the Dead Gang given an extra day off.
Conversations at the bar that night were slurred, but grim flashbacks were not. All those hands, fleshed and unfleshed, aimed every direction, alleging blame. Some fingers pointed to heaven, others hell, most at the mineshaft. Never at the Dead Gang.
Bio: D.L. Shirey writes from Portland, Oregon, where it’s probably raining. His work has been featured in 365 Tomorrows, ZeroFlash, and Fewer Than 500.